FAMILY

AUTHOR: Little Mouse (elf_night@hotmail.com)

DISCLAIMER: Once again, Joss', not mine. Still a lucky man.

WARNINGS: For explicit m/m stuff, and violence, and remembered abuse, and language, and lots of other stuff.

ARCHIVE: Please ask first.

SUMMARY: AU! Spike isn't in 'love' with Buffy, but has told Giles' the story of Drusilla turning him. He has the chip, but no soul. Angel's in LA. Anya doesn't exist. I moved forward the 'meltdown' of Spike's chip a bit.

STORY: Spike's little story of his turning isn't the exact truth... Angel loses his soul - or does he? and starts gathering his scattered family. Spike insists that isn't going to include him. He's so very, very wrong...

"So - I'm guessing that means they're dangerous?"

"You could say that," Spike said softly, remembering the times Penn and Lucinda had visited Angelus. He barely controlled a shudder. Penn wasn't so bad, as far as tormenting him had gone, but Lucinda...

"Did they have any use for you?" Buffy smirked at him.

"Didn't have a lot of time to spend studyin' Dru's Childer," Spike said calmly, keeping to the lies he'd told. "Came ta see Angelus, didn't they? Not nobody else."

"So - why would they be looking for Deborah?" Wesley asked, trying to get back on the subject.

Spike shrugged. "Angelus liked havin' 'is Childer all together. Made 'em in sets, 'e did. Picked 'em to fit together. Quality-wise, ya know? Said they 'covered each others' weaknesses with their strengths' or some such rot."

"How many Childer did he have? Just the four, I hope?"

"Six. Penn and Lucinda, then Daniel and Deborah, an' Tomas and Drusilla. Most of 'em went off ta try bein' on their own for a while, but 'e was always gonna get 'em back together someday. Talked about it a bit when 'e came back last time, 'fore 'e decided be more fun ta send the world ta Hell."

"So, you think he's going to try and find them all? To bring them together?"

"Prolly," Spike muttered, stretching out his legs. "Hey, Rupert, more blood?"

"What about you?" Giles asked, ignoring the question. "Is he going to come after you?"

"Wot for?" Spike snarled, trying to hide any hurt that might flicker through his eyes. "Never been much interested in 'is GrandChilder."

"GrandChilder...?" Wesley looked surprised. "I'm sure I've heard Angel refer to you as his Childe. I know I've heard him say he's your Sire."

"Dru's me real Sire," Spike said quickly, having already come up with this answer. "'E just means 'e trained me. Dru didn't have the brains for it, did she? Kept gettin' the ones she turned dusted. Fussed 'bout all 'er Childer dyin', so when she made me, Angelus trained me so he wouldn't have ta put up with 'er whinin'. That's all."

He wasn't going to tell them the truth - was never going to tell anyone, if he could help it, that Angelus had turned him after Drusilla had tried and been unable to, and had gone pouting to her 'Daddy.' Would never tell them how Angelus had called him 'my extra Childe' or how the other - wanted - Childer had teased and tormented him. How Angelus had laughed at the marks they left on him, when he would have ripped anyone who had hurt them limb from limb. How he'd punished them when they hurt each other but couldn't be bothered when they turned their torture on his youngest; his unwanted, useless Seventh Childe.

Wasn't like anyone else was going to tell them differently, either. He doubted any of Angel's sane Childer would even remember him; Dru might, but her ramblings about a 'dark prince' would probably go unnoticed.

And there was no way Angelus would be coming for him. Ever. The old Angelus had never had much time for him, beyond training him and occasionally taking him to bed when there was no one 'better' around; the recently returned, insane version had despised him. Wasn't even good enough to be a fuck toy for that Angelus. Spent a little time using him to brush up on his torture techniques, but that was all. Couldn't even be bothered to feed him. If it hadn't been for Drusilla occasionally remembering him, he'd have starved to death.

Speaking of starving...

Spike leaned over and scooped up his mug, ignoring the two Watchers, who were avidly discussing everything they'd heard about Angelus' Childer. Willow, Buffy and Xander were listening with dazed expressions. Cordelia was filing her nails while chattering to someone on the phone. No one paid attention as he went into the kitchen and heated himself another mug of blood. A look through the ice box showed him several reserve bags; he managed to get four of the frozen blocks into his inside duster pockets. Giles wouldn't miss them for a while. With the blood he'd already been promised - and what he was drinking now damn well didn't count! - he'd be set for nearly four days.

Four days, four beautiful days without having to see the Slayer or listen to Giles go on and on and on...

...bliss...

He jerked around suddenly, glaring at the open window. Something - something or someone - was watching. He could feel it. The light breeze brought the scent of that minion he'd seen earlier to his nose, and he frowned. Was the idiot following him around? Why? By now he should have told his master about him and gotten orders to keep looking for others. Why was he still hanging around?

He turned to the fridge and took out the four bags of fresh blood that was his usual payment. There was some cash on the counter, the usual skimpy amount they gave him. Deciding that was probably his, he tucked it in his jeans' pocket and put the blood in a bag. Wandering back into the living room, he found the humans doing the exact same things as before. He walked straight out the door without anyone noticing.

*

The minion outside saw him leaving.

By the time Spike reached the bushes he'd been hiding in, only the lingering scent was there. He snorted angrily and headed back for his crypt, keeping his senses wide open in case he was followed again.

He didn't hear, see, or smell anything, and there was no warning that another vampire was near. Still, instinct made him take the long way, with as many twists and turns as possible, before he went into the cemetery he currently called home. Even then, he lurked about in the shadows for nearly an hour before sliding into his crypt.

A quick tug had a heavy stone urn braced against the door - it wouldn't stop a strong minion, or the Slayer, for that matter - but he'd have an early warning if someone did come crashing in. Satisfied for now, he hid the frozen blood bags in the sarcophagus, tucking three of the fresh ones under them so they'd stay cold as long as possible. Pigs' blood was bad enough, spoiled pigs' blood was something he didn't even want to think about.

He closed the lid and replaced the skimpy blanket that lay on it for camouflage. He had slept there for a few uncomfortable days, but last week, Clem had brought him a mattress. Spike had set it up down below, with some nice thick blankets he'd nicked, one from each of the Scoobies as his patrolling with them had taken them into their houses. He'd even gotten a pillow from Giles' seldom-used guest bedroom, tossing it out the window to retrieve from the bushes later. It was a lot nicer - warmer and softer - than sleeping on the cold, carved stone.

The only other furnishings in his 'home', traded from Clem for kittens, were the battered easy chair and the equally battered old telly on its ugly metal stand. A single rug lay on the floor, hiding the trapdoor down into his basement. He wanted to keep that room a secret for as long as possible; so long as no one kicked the rug aside - and it was positioned innocently between the chair and the telly - no one would ever know the trapdoor, the basement, the bed, and the emergency exit into the tunnels existed. Angelus had managed to teach him the value of a contingency plan, if little else.

He shrugged out of his duster, opened the trapdoor, and tossed the coat down onto the bed. If anything did happen before he retreated to sleep the day away, the precious leather coat ought to be safe. He could retrieve it later.

He flipped on the telly, hit it a few times and swore at the antenna until he had a half-decent picture, then sprawled out with the fourth fresh bag of blood, piercing it with his fangs and sipping the cool blood slowly as he watched a 'Keeping Up Appearances' marathon. Once he finished the blood, there was a half-bottle of Jack Daniels waiting for his attentions.

Unlife could be worse... he supposed.

*****((Two days later))*****

Spike was curled up in the little nest of blankets on his old mattress, dreaming of being a child and chasing butterflies through a meadow with his sister. He could almost feel the warmth of the sun bathing his skin.

He was less than happy when he heard the door of the crypt slam open and Buffy shouting his name.

Good thing he had the trapdoor closed - since it opened by swinging down, it was simple to smooth the rug in place, then swing the heavy piece back. He was ninety-nine percent sure Buffy wouldn't find him.

He didn't bother getting up, just lay in comfort and listening to the Slayer ranting above him. He heard the cooler reply of Giles' voice, and wondered why the Watcher was in his lair. Oh, well, probably some new apocalypse. It could wait until sundown. He wasn't getting up and running around under that damn flimsy blanket.

A crash made him jump. Bloody hell, if that Slayer broke into his sarcophagus and ruined his blood stash, then headache or no headache, he was gonna break her little pig nose.

Another crash, followed by the Slayer's smug tones, brought him bolt upright. Damn, that sounded like his telly getting smashed! Rage clawed at his throat and he nearly howled. It was bad enough that they starved him and a little chit of a girl used him for her own personal punching bag - did they have to take away one of the few pleasures he had left?!

The thought of gutting her slowly sent a flash of white-hot pain through his head. He managed to bite down on the pillow and keep from screaming out, but it wasn't easy.

By the time the pain settled - it took longer and longer - the crypt was quiet again. He got to his feet, shaking badly, and nearly crawled up the ladder. It took him several tries before he managed to get the trap door open, and the light rug felt almost too heavy for him to move.

His television was in pieces.

Spike nearly whimpered. Just an old black and white set, that barely managed to pick up three channels, and yet the Slayer had to smash it like a vengeful child. How was he supposed to watch Passions now? Xander and Giles both refused to let him turn their tellies on, forget about sitting there and actually watching a show. What right did that spoiled little girl have to ruin one of his most prized possessions?

And how pitiful was it that a broken-down set like that was a prize possession? It was sickening, how low he'd sunk.

There was a piece of folded paper on his sarcophagus. The ragged blanket had been thrown on the floor and one of the smaller urns was holding the note in place.

Spike,

Where are you? You're supposed to be here! You better not be out causing trouble!

Come to Giles' as soon as you get this!

Buffy

Spike snarled and wadded the paper up, throwing it across the crypt. Damn humans thought they owned him! He wasn't going to go running over there like a good little boy - especially not with his telly lying in bits on the stone floor! He had blood for two more days and he wasn't going near one of those gits until it was gone!

He kicked aside some of the shattered innards of his television, then snatched up his remaining blood and dropped back down through the trapdoor. He replaced the rug and flopped down on the bed. His head was aching after the chip fired - hell, little shocks of pain were still echoing from the bloody bit of electronics! He had no doubt the thing was going to blow his head up before it was all over.

Since there was nothing he could do about it, though, he was going back to sleep.

*

He woke up long after dark, his head still throbbing and his mouth dry as sandpaper.

And he was starving.

He stumbled out of bed and through the darkness to the corner where his last four bags of blood had found a new home. Ripping one open with his fangs, he gulped the cold, thick blood down as quickly as he could. Shuddering, he flung the bag into the cardboard box that doubled as a disposable trash can, and went back to sit on the bed.

He had two choices for tonight - go out and find some demon to beat up, maybe steal a little pocket money from, or go back to sleep and try to conserve the little bit of energy that pigs blood had just given him.

There was no way, like he'd said earlier, that he was going to trot obediently over to the Watcher's place.

'Course, if he went out looking for demons, with his luck, he'd run straight into the Slayer. Maybe he should just rest - it wasn't like the world was going to end if he spent the night wallowing in misery and depression. Kinda appealed to him, in fact.

The crypt door slammed open again, and the Slayer bellowed, "Spike!"

Shit.

"Spike, you worthless waste of space! Are you here?! You'd better be here!"

"Buff, that's not exactly the best way to get him to cooperate," Xander's voice tried to placate her.

"And he's probably mad that you broke his television," Willow added.

"T-that wasn't n-nice," Tara's shy voice echoed.

"Oh, please! Why would I be nice to that undead creep? If I was, he'd probably start stalking me again!"

Spike shuddered. That had been temporary insanity; no way was he going to ever think he liked the Slayer again. Still didn't know what had come over him - maybe it was one to many blows to the head. That was Angelus' idea of foreplay, after all. He was probably conditioned. Couple of slaps, and he was ready to go. He snickered at the idea, then clapped a hand over his mouth.

Luckily, Buffy was yelling too loudly for her sensitive Slayer hearing to pick up the sound. "I left him a note and I know he's read it; it's gone! I'm going to kick him from here to Tuesday! Wesley and Giles are waiting for him!"

"After the last time they wanted to ask him questions, he probably won't cooperate at all," Xander said. "We didn't even notice when he left, you know?"

"So?"

"Oh, come on, Buffy! Anyone would get mad if you ignored them like that. It's not gonna kill us to be nice to Spike - at least long enough to get Angel souled again. Much as I hate Deadboy, I hate him worse unsouled. He's really nasty and mean, remember? If he's got four of his kids with him now, who knows what's gonna happen? Wesley said he was making 'let's go to Sunnydale' noises."

"I know," Buffy said, whining a little, "but come on! It's so much easier to punch Spike until he talks!"

"I would modify my actions, Slayer, if I were you," a vaguely familiar voice entered the conversation, causing the humans above his head to yelp.

"Who are you?" Buffy demanded.

Spike already knew, and he was on his feet, shrugging into his duster and heading for his emergency exit.

"I am Penn the Engraver, little girl. I am the First Childe of Angelus, High Master of the Aurelius clan. I have come for my Brother. Where is he?"